


A Cold Comfort

by Imperfectcurl



Series: Blind Navigation [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Extremis Tony Stark, M/M, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-10-10 19:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 16,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17432195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imperfectcurl/pseuds/Imperfectcurl
Summary: Left in the bunker alone, Tony has to face what comes next.





	1. Move over Karma, Life's the Queen now

There only ever seemed to be a Before and After. His entire life, defined by events out of his control, seemed an endless study in how to pick up the pieces—his pieces, as they shattered again and again.

Before Howard’s Abuse. Before Obadiah. Before the Car Crash. Before Afghanistan. Before the Palladium. Before the Wormhole.

Now he had a new one. One to join the many: Before his Friend—before the man he had adored—slammed that ridiculous frisbee into his chest and walked away. How many more nightmares would this give him? How many more panic attacks would be brought?

What a dick.

At this point, he wasn’t even really a person anymore. A shell—no, a husk, he corrected—holding back a blackened soul ground into sand. Unwanted. Unfixable. Unable to be enough. At what point does a person stop surviving. At what point does the After never follow?

He didn’t even have to try hard to imagine Howard’s smug face. _How can you expect anyone to choose_ you _._

Tony wheezed a laugh at the absurdity of it all.

He could make it happen, he thought. Afters weren’t guaranteed; Yinsen proved that. He could simply stay in this spot. Even though he could no longer feel his fingers, he could feel the way the suit’s jagged edges dug into his chest with each breathe. He could imagine the blood, slowly seeping down along his ribs, settle at his back to puddle and freeze. God, fuck Siberia. Who even thought this place was a good idea?

Maybe, if he tried sitting up, he’d pierce his heart. No After Siberia. No After Steve. It probably wouldn’t work. It _definitely_ wouldn’t work. How much blood had he lost to even think that was plausible? God, was it now After He Went Stupid?

Tony banged his head against the ground in frustration. He was better than this! He was becoming better than this. Doing the right thing wasn’t easy but he did it. He was doing it. Every. Fucking. Day. Trying, anyway.

He should have handled it differently. He should have handled everything differently. He sees that now as he stupidly lies on the ground with his teeth chattering in what was _definitely_ a haunted bunker if the lights flickering across his vision were any indication. Rhodey and Pepper had both warned him—God, he was going to have to admit they were right when he got out of here! That alone should be enough to end it, really.

Later, he’d blame what was obviously a concussion for why the sound of steps echoing through the empty bunker hadn’t registered until the boots hit his limited line of vision. Black boots, black pants, black guns and one ugly red octopus. Wonderful.

Hysterical laughter bubbled up in his throat. Was this really his life? Was this really next? “Well, I did _nazi_ that coming, boys!” Even as he coughed up blood, even as every nerve left still working in his body screamed in agony as they manhandled him and his dead suit, he continued to cackle maniacally.

Because if he stopped, then a new After would begin and he didn’t think he had it in him to pick up any more pieces.


	2. This way to the zoo...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for everyone's encouragement! I admit I was a little nervous trying my hand at this.

The crawl back to consciousness was excruciating. It hurt to breathe—it hurt to blink. His hands felt as if they had been dipped in liquid fire; his right leg was definitely broken. He lulled his head to the left but immediately aborted when what was likely to be a fractured cheekbone hit cold tiled floor.

He opened the only eye not swollen shut and winced at the lights. Too bright, he thought. He tried sitting up only to go right back down in a bout of vertigo.

That’s ok. The floor seemed nice anyway.

 “Corneal frostbite.”

Tony jumped at the voice and then hissed as everything in him jarred. He tipped his head back, towards the voice, only to find a blob of a person perched close. He squinted but the picture didn’t seem to get better. “What?”

“Your eyes have gotten far too cold,” the voice purred and suddenly there were fingers brushing over his eyebrows and down across his eyelashes. He flinched away but the fingers only seem to calmly follow after. Tony wondered if maybe this person had been petting him in his sleep.

“I require at least dinner before butterfly kisses get on the menu.”

“Has anyone ever actually bought you dinner?”

“Has anyone ever actually discussed boundaries with you?” Tony tried moving away again, only to find himself pressed against a wall.

That can’t be good.

“Glad to see your super-friends tiff hasn’t snuffed out that insufferable spark of yours—” Even as his heart bottomed into his stomach at the mere mention of the bunker, Tony mentally groaned at the inevitable conclusion— “Wouldn’t want to the Captain to have had all the fun.”

Seriously. Was every kidnapper reading the same book? Every goddamn time. We get it, you’re creepy. This will be unpleasant.

But he’d done unpleasant. Some far, hysterical corner of his brain began to wonder if maybe his life was less Before and After and more a series of unpleasant Betweens.

“Look, if this is about those walking D.A.R.E. posters at that base, it wasn’t us.” He extended his good leg, slowly, only to bump up against a different wall. Two walls didn’t necessarily make a cage, he thought.

Who the fuck was he kidding? It was _so_ a cage. He was some crazy’s new pet bunny.

The voice stayed annoyingly unruffled but the hands thankfully moved away. “No, no. This is about you, Tony. About what you’re going to do for us.”

“I’m not making you weapons.” He tensed when he heard the click of a heavy lid and what distinctly sounded like metal sliding into place. Something tapped on the wall to his right—the wall he was pressed against.

Great. See-through. Now all he needed was sticky-handed children banging on the glass.

“I would never ask that of you, my pet.”

Aaaand done.

Tony squinted. His world was still a vague blur but he could at least distinguish colors.

Something cylindrical and glowing orange tapped loudly against the glass at his face. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tony jerked his head back; dread filled the pit of his stomach.

“My colleagues have been hard at work but, as I see it, why not leverage the golden goose. I want you to _create,_ Anthony. That’s what you do these days, isn’t it? You are going to fix it. Stablize it. _Improve_ it.”

“Why would I ever do that?”

“Because by the time we are done with you, you’ll need it more than us. The question you should really be asking is, how much damage can you expect Extremis to actually fix before you’re deemed a lost cause?” The voice paused before adding, amused, “I hope you’re not expecting anyone to come looking for you.”

He was sure he’d have been able to come up with a witty response but an ominous rushing sound near his feet diverted his attention and his legs suddenly grew wet.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

He struggled to sit up but there was really no where to go. Tony pulled his tied hands up to his chest as the water rose too quickly for his liking. He heard someone yelling; he wondered if it was him.  “No, No, NO. NO!”

He could physically _feel_ the panic set in and he felt himself being thrown back _there._ The shocks of the battery every time they slammed his head in; the dig of the metal trough into his still-healing chest. The rancid taste of the water as he threw it back up.

He hadn’t thought it could get worse than that but Oh God. What happened when it reached his chest? What happened if the armor had pierced it too far? Suddenly, he was imagining the water pouring into his body, filling his chest cavity. Drowning him from the inside out.

This time he knew it was him screaming as his hands burned at the water’s touch.

“Oh Anthony, you look beautiful like this.”

What the hell did that even mean?!

He must have said it out loud because even as he took his last gasps of air he vaguely heard the garbled response.

“Helpless.”


	3. Hot and Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's POV

Wakanda was unacceptable.

They’d taken his weapons. The blonde one—no, _Steve_ , he reminded himself—kept crowding into his space like he wasn’t going to snap his neck at the first chance he got.

Inwardly, the Solider paced and snarled. He was trading one prison for another; each person framing their demands of him as if he were making the choice.

He had been _corrected_ not lobotomized.  

 “—another broken white-boy.”

The Soldier hadn’t been listening, but he smiled appropriately. After all, he had a part to play if he wanted to keep his marginal freedom without scrutiny. “But now you’ve got a vintage one, doll. I hear Classic is all the rage these days.”

The little princess rolled her eyes and moved away from his stump. If he felt inclined to ‘like’, he thinks he’d like her. She was smart and mouthy. Like Stark.

“Is he going to be okay?” The blonde, too close to his back, asked.

The hovering wouldn’t do, he thought. They were already sharing a room.

“I’ve repaired and sealed the socket but it’ll take time for me to construct a new arm.”

“Oh, I don’t think we need that, do you, Bucky?”

Of course he needed it. What kind of question was that? Optimality could not be reached if he only had _one arm, Steven._ “Yeah, Stevie... It’d probably remind me too much of...” He paused and then shrugged, pretending to be unable to say their name.

The squeezing of his shoulder was probably meant to be significant. Reassuring, possibly? “Maybe we can come back to it—when you’re in a better place.”

He forced himself to physically relax. He couldn’t go after Hydra with one hand, especially now. If he had known following the blonde would cost him plans A through G, he wouldn’t have let himself be found in Bucharest.  

As it stood, he’d have to bide his time here. If the Princess was indeed as smart as he hoped, he could probably salvage a portion of Plan H. A bit of time, a bit of manipulation would be required but once he had the triggers removed and the arm re-attached, he’d be able to leave.

After all, Wakanda wasn’t acceptable.

Stark wasn’t here.


	4. Missteps can sometimes be worth it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky POV part 2

Being Bucky Barnes was an extended trial in patience. Even with the memories he had gained during his freedom, it was primarily a game of clue but with no foreseeable end. Despite his serum, it was exhausting.

By the end of the first week, the blonde had gone to retrieve his utterly useless band of Rogues and, while they took some of the burden of the man’s attention from him, he was now faced with a group of people not so easily blinded by nostalgia. And, in particular, a little spider who took in too much.

But the group was shockingly easy to beguile. Consumed by their own mal-adjustments and lingering bitterness of their, frankly, self-made exile, his show turned out to be more for the benefit of the Wakandans than his team. And whether it was the blonde’s stubborn assurances or, as he learned, the extensive chronicling of an alleged heroic sidekick, it became quickly obvious that even they seemed inclined to accept his well-measured recovery from the Winter Soldier at face value.

Because Bucky Barnes had been good. Because Bucky Barnes would never have been capable of the atrocities the Soldier had committed.

They seemed to forget there had been a war before his captivity. They seemed to forget that he had already been killing but for a different master. The unrelenting emptiness in his soul had not been produced by Hydra, just widened. They had broken him into compliance, but they had not needed to re-write him.

The blonde had been made of morals; he only sins.

That was not to say he had accepted his fate with grace. He killed them as often as he could; endured the corrections that inevitably came. The hole inside him widened and all that was left was something caged and feral. A single-minded animal who _endured._

And the Soldier had **definitely not endured** to sit in this palace with these people.

So when the witch and the archer continued to vocalize their distaste for Stark and no one moved to correct them, he found his proverbial jaws gnashing. And when they explained how he was far better off without having known—ate, lived, breathed and touched—the man, he found himself attempting to squeeze the very life from their body and enjoying it all the while.

Later, he would blame the misstep on his frustration that Stark hadn’t been announced missing yet; everyone else would blame it on Hydra.

Being Bucky Barnes was exhausting, but the Soldier knew it would all be worth the wait.


	5. How the Genius plays the game

“It appears your frostbite is getting worse, Anthony,” the voice condoled as his body was manipulated with some semblance of care across his captor’s lap.

“Might… Might have something to do with the freezer you keep putting me in,” he snarled, despite the chattering of his teeth.

“If you continue to not comply, I can do little to ensure your health. We may very well need to remove these limbs of yours.” A tsking followed.

If there was one thing his life in the spotlight had taught him, it was how to fake equanimity. He attempted to shrug but the entire effect was lost when he flinched as hands settled onto his belly and began what had recently become some bizarre attempt at soothing him through steady stroking.

Creepy did not begin to explain this person.

But as flippant as he continued to try to be, he could admit, in the dark of the freezer, that he was terrified. He had endured torture of various kinds, numerous times, throughout his life but this was a different beast all together. Hydra only needed his mouth and his brain in working order and his captor took unhealthy pleasure in his tasks, if the hitches in his breath were any indication. And he feared, that soon, even that unspoken boundary would eventually be crossed. And he wouldn’t survive that. Not again. Not after Obadiah.

Inevitably, he found himself thinking of Barnes. About how the man had managed to fight for decades when Tony hadn’t even really lasted weeks. About how the only time he had ever managed to rile his captor—and he tried his hardest as often as possible—was at the mere mention of his name. It was almost enough to make the flashbacks to the bunker worth it. It was almost enough to make him keep his resolve.

Eventually he tuned back in to his bunny-keeper and realized the best part of his days had begun. As if sensing his inevitable acquiesce, his captor had begun spending the mornings reading the various research Hydra possessed on the magic little serum he was expected to fix. And Tony absorbed every word.

Because he wasn’t stupid. His help with Extremis was inevitable. Pointed out often enough, no one was coming for him and it had been made very clear that any chance of death was unattainable. With each drowning, he found himself forced back to life. Each time in the freezer was stopped before his body could give out. Even now, as the man spent quality time carving intricate patterns across the uninfected parts of his skin, there would be no chance of a slip up; nothing was ever deep enough to cause irreparable harm.

This was his punishment for not having done enough. This was payment for the red in his ledger.

But he would be damned if he didn’t take as much of them with him as he could. So he spent his time listening. Absorbing. Thinking. Without use of his hands and his vision having gone black days ago, Tony would be left to rely completely on his captor to help him make adjustments and, although he was pretty sure the crazy was WebMD-ing the majority of his diagnoses, the man wouldn’t be stupid enough to not have his work checked by those who knew enough to catch any tricks he might try.

So Tony planned, spending his brief moments of respite volleying between hysterical laughter and calculating possibilities. He would burn this place to the ground; and, honestly, if he could manage it, the world was going to burn too.


	6. How the Genius plays the game part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tiniest baby chapter there ever was and the last of the short ones. Thank you guys for your encouragement!

“Oh, my Anthony… How you cause me so much trouble.”

He might have believed the indulgent fondness laced in that voice if not for the skimming of a familiar blade across his swirl-carved skin. Any confusion was quickly erased as the sounds of a saw and cracking bones reminded Tony that someone was opening up yet another dead Extremis soldier close by.

He barely stopped the grin from crossing his face. This made twelve.

“I have a perfectly reasonable explanation. I don’t like you.”

The exasperated sigh, felt across his cheek, was punctuated by the inching of the knife into his flesh. “What have you done, pet?”

“Sounds like you made a mistake.”

He flinched when a hand wrapped around his throat and squeezed. Part of him hoped that the man would lose control and end it now; the other part wanted to see just how many he’d kill before they figured out the problem.

“I did not make a _mistake_ ¸ Anthony _;_ you _lied_. What is it you did? Why do they simply just _die_?”

He gave a gasping laugh in response. “Sounds like they just don’t make Nazis like they used to.”

The accompanying silence was deafening. 

“You’re right. Maybe we have been going about this all wrong.” His head was wrenched sideways, exposing the back of his neck. “It appears you’ll have roughly a month. Plenty of time for someone as gifted as you, I’m sure.”

Pain laced him from the inside and he screamed. It was time to find out what Extremis could fix.


	7. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier finally comes for what's his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will show Tony's POV of this

The fist of Hydra would have entered the bunker without detection. Would have stolen through the halls until he could be sure that Stark was indeed inside this one. But the Soldier was free now to do as he pleased and what pleased him was absolute _annihilation_.

He swept through the base like the specter of death, leaving no man alive in his wake. The months of playing the good-natured sidekick had left his skin feeling too tight but the familiar press of the muzzle against his face and the proverbial rivers of blood seemed almost baptizing in their familiarity. He had forgotten how loud the shot of a gun was; how _satisfying_ the sound of someone’s neck snapping could be. Especially when that someone was Hydra.

It was pleasing to know he had not lost his touch.

High-valued prisoners would be placed far out of reach in a place like this so it wasn’t until he’d reached the lower levels that he began to slow down. Started to look. It quickly became apparent this was one of _those_ labs as he crossed paths with suffering prisoners, alien tech, blood-washed floors and horrific outcomes. Eliminating the later in mercy, he released the former. Several white coats later, he managed to find one with the authority to open the right doors.

In the subsequent chaos and with a talkative scientist at his mercy—maybe he hadn’t _needed_ to crush all those bones, but it had certainly felt good— finding Stark proved rather easy. Upon opening the third try, he found a familiar, although unexpectedly young, dark-haired man sitting naked on the floor, drenched in blood and gore. He wasn’t sure what was more surprising, the familiar, radiating blue glow in his chest or the decidedly dead body, which had probably once had a face, beside him. The former, he thought; the sheer rage it took to do harm of that caliber was something the Soldier understood well.

A long-dormant feeling, hot and pleased, coiled low in his stomach. Leave it to Stark to never disappoint. Never stay down. Never really _need_ a rescue. They’d rule the world, if he was so inclined.

“Oh god, Doctor—”

He shot the scientist beside him without even a glance, startling Stark out of whatever shock he might have been in, and, as he strode towards him, the man scrambled to stand with apparent difficulty.

The Soldier fell to his knees and linked his hands behind his back, as he would have when waiting to receive correction, in one final show of submission to the only person that mattered. Stark was his already, in his mind, but their last meeting hadn’t exactly been pleasant and there was no telling what Hydra had been telling him in the meantime.

He needed the man to know he was, in fact, the prince in this story and not the dragon.

His head fell forward and he waited.

Tentative fingers soon brushed across the crown of his head, as if the man wasn’t sure he was actually there. Once the contact was made, the shaking appendage seemed to bury itself deep and he followed the tug to look up.

Beautiful, caramel eyes, wide and assessing, skittered across his features before hardening with resolve. “Get me out of here.” The fingers let go of his hair and, with surprising strength, began to tug at the fabric of his shoulder. “Now. Get me out of here _now._ ”

There was something to be said about _choosing_ to follow a command. Exhilarating, even. The Soldier stood, wrapping his metal arm around the smaller man’s waist, and hoisted him over his shoulder. The accompanying, undignified squeak was simply icing on the cake.

“No, wait; hey! I meant with some clothes first!”

With a hand across the back of his cargo’s thighs, he stepped back to the entrance and snatched a discarded coat by the door. Then, instead of following his path back, he continued further into the base.

Frantic hands began hitting his ass. “Hey. Hey, where are we going? The way out is that way; the dead people are that way!”

“There will be additional resistance upon exiting; we will use the escape hatch.”

The hitting stopped but he noted the hands didn’t move away. His inner animal preened; he knew how he looked in this uniform.

“Escape hatch? Really?”

“They’re Nazis, Stark. There is always an escape hatch.”

Honestly, he wasn’t one hundred percent sure, those sort of items never showed up on plans, but all Hydra bases tended to be built the same—en masse with shitty materials and paranoia in spades—so he followed the path he’d taken last time a handler needed a quick escape (1972, different country, but don’t tell Stark).

With the Rogues’ commiseration over Tony’s “incessant prattling,” as they put it, the accompanying silence was unsettling, but he didn’t have long to dwell on the matter when the earth beneath his feet began to shake and the ceiling crumble.

Fuck. They were blowing the base, he thought. Trying to take out the Winter Solider and Ironman in one go. The successive booms echoing down the hall seemed to chase every step as he sprinted the rest of the way down the hall.

Five. Four. Three.

He dropped his shoulder, forcing Stark to fall sideways, and twisted. Three. Pulling Stark into his chest, his back slammed into the door of the final room. Two. The remaining force of the blast finally caught up and the door gave way. One. Landing hard, he watched as the hallway they’d just occupied collapsed.

The lights flickered and then extinguished for good.

“Great plan, asshole.”

 “You’re alive, aren’t you?” He ripped off his mask but stayed put. When Stark shoved out of his arms to sit up, he made no resistance. Instead, he concentrated on letting his eyes adjust to the only source of light left in the room—the man’s chest.

Shittiest flashlight ever, he thought. But it was enough to discern the wide metal shelving that covered every wall around them and the papers, slanting slightly in haphazard formations, stuffed in every available space and crevice.  

“It’s a filing—”

“I know, I can see.”

Even with the serum, it was difficult for him, but he didn’t raise the point. Instead, he simply sat up and pretended to not notice the faint orange lines that seemed to snake across various portions of the man’s skin.

Eventually, Stark, as if losing some internal fight, sagged beside him. “Sorry, Barnes; I didn’t mean to snap. I just really thought, for a minute, that I was going to make it out of this hellhole.”

“James.” Trying to convey understanding, he slid his arm around the genius’ shoulders and squeezed gently, like he’d seen Sam do for Steven on occasion. “You can call me James.”


	8. Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony's POV of the last chapter

The first thing Tony realized upon waking from the Extremis chrysalis was that he was _starving_. He suddenly had a greater appreciation for Steve’s appetite and resolved that, next time he remade the suit, he’d have to add _way_ more pockets for those gross SHIELD bars. (Tony had tried said bars once. It tasted like what he imagined cement dust and 1940s era malted milk balls mixed together would)

His brain stuttered at the thought—He wasn’t going to be making any more suits; Steve was gone. They were all gone—before suddenly being inundated by a thousand more. It was like a nest of bees had been crammed into his head, screeching for his attention.  His mind’s eye flashed between pictures of hallways littered with bodies, labs full of chaos and blood, sun-sparkled water lapping at industrial concrete, and fleets of cars coming and going. All at strange, high angles; some grainy, some in color.

He desperately tried to find something to latch on—various angles of himself, curled in a ball, squeezing his head as if it would somehow help, as someone hovered above him—but any one image simply gave away to the next. No, it was the cooing of an all-too-familiar voice, the hot breathe against his ear, that slammed him back into his body. The visceral _rage_ it induced was enough to drown out the feeds in his head. Tony opened his eyes and, for the first time in months, was able to see.

 “There you are, my pet. Just calm down…”

Hands suddenly grabbed hold of his face in guidance. The genius flinched away but the man just dragged him back by the chain linking his wrists. So used to being unable to physically resist, Tony didn’t fight it, sliding across the cold floor, and came face to face with his captor.

He wasn’t really sure what he’d expected. No, he did. He’d spent all this time imagining some villain in a lab coat ala Vincent Price when his hair had started to recede but the man stroking his face was more of a blonde-hair-blue-eyed Ted Bundy. Some small, snickering voice in his head noted the colors weren’t nearly as nice as Steve’s. More douchebag, less wheat.

 “…Don’t worry, I’ve got you. Relax; it’s just us.”

Just us. _Just us_. If this man had his way, there would only be _just us_ for the rest of Tony’s now decidedly longer life. Suddenly, where there had been panic, all he saw was red and he could finally do something about it. He launched himself forward, wrapped the cuffs around the man’s neck and squeezed.

His back bowed as an electric current ran from the base of his spine down through the rest of his body. Crying out, he immediately let go and crouched in on himself, feeling for the source. A metal collar sat tight around his neck.

Oh, _hell_ no. He wasn’t some _dog_. He wasn’t going to be the next Winter Soldier or some sick asshole’s pet bunny. (Did bunnies have collars? Not the point, Stark) And he certainly wasn’t going to be stuck in this hellhole for the rest of his life. Faced with yet another After of someone else’s doing, Tony wrapped his fingers around the collar, digging into his skin to manage it, and wrenched the thing away from his throat.  Extremis healed whatever damage he’d done, but the pain didn’t even register. All there was was rage. Red hot _fury_ at the man who had tried to break him. Own him.

Barnes hadn’t accepted it, why should he.

Tony smashed the sparking remnants into his torturer’s face and proceeded to just lose it. He found himself climbing on top and beating the metal down, screaming, crying, laughing. Over and over. Far beyond what was necessary and yet he couldn’t seem to stop. Not until his arms, burning from use, gave out.

His great, heaving gasps filled the deafening silence that followed. He smeared the blood from his eyes, leaving streaks down his face and neck. Used his shoulder to swipe what was left on his mouth. He riffled through the man’s pockets until he found the keys to his cuffs.

He wondered if this made him a supervillain.

Later, he’d blame the adrenaline for why it took so long to even notice the blue glow. The blue glow coming from his _skin_ in the exact size and shape of his old arc reactor.

You know, the one he’d gotten removed.

He touched it tentatively with his fingertips and got little orange starbursts in response to the pressure. Didn’t hurt. In fact, nothing hurt for the first time in months.

The sound of a gun made him jump. Made him look up to see none other than the Winter Soldier murder strutting towards him. Tony scrambled to his feet, slipping a bit in the blood surrounding him. He braced himself, ready to fight. He hadn’t just gotten out of hell to die right now, naked and bloody. Not after that.

And then the soldier dropped to his knees.

Uh. What now?

His brain rebooted. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe this was some strange end-of-life, right-the-world fantasy while Extremis deemed him too damaged and hit the kill switch. Didn’t really explain Barnes; definitely explained the all-leather outfit though.

He reached his hand out, hating that it shook, and tentatively touched the crown of the man’s head.

Definitely real. Strangely soft.

He yanked the man’s head up, just to be sure. The muzzle hid most everything, but his eyes looked clear. Determined. Hungry. Had they been like that at the bunker? Had they been that blue?

It struck him suddenly, more importantly, that someone had come for him. That this man had come to _help_ him. _Save him_. Risked re-capture even after everything that had happened.

This man was getting a parade. A fucking _holiday_ in his name if he wanted. “Get me out of here. Now. Get me out of here _now_ ,” he demanded.

He may or may not have squawked at being thrown over the Soldier’s shoulder like a sack of very naked potatoes. Normally he wouldn’t mind—Pepper always said he was an exhibitionist at heart—but there was something about being escorted bare-assed through a Hydra base that required a line be drawn. “No, wait; hey! I meant with some clothes first!”

He was about to start kicking when he felt something get thrown over his head. He quickly yanked off what turned out to be a coat and struggled to get it on. When he realized they were heading away from the man’s obvious ingress, he beat on the closest flesh he could find. “Hey. Hey, where are we going? The way out is that way; the dead people are that way!”

“There will be additional resistance upon exiting; we will use the escape hatch.”

He stopped, hooking his fingers in the man’s belt, as an image flashed in his brain of vehicles arriving. “Escape hatch? Really?”

“They’re Nazis, Stark. There is always an escape hatch.”

Touché, he thought.

One by one, the bees in his head suddenly went silent. Half way through and the earth began to shake. Never good. Barnes suddenly accelerated and, before he knew it, Tony was lying on his back, wheezing plaster dust and staring at where his only escape used to be.

The lights flickered and then extinguished for good.

“Great plan, asshole,” he lashed out, pulling his old defenses tightly around himself. They were trapped. He was actually going to die here.

 “You’re alive, aren’t you?”

He ignored the biting reply and struggled to sit up. The room felt cloying. His skin felt tight. The darkness was too much like the freezer; the pressing in of the walls too much like Afghanistan. Tony ripped open his jacket, remembering and needing to see the blue light. His blue light. Bizarre proof that his plans had worked.

“It’s a filing—”

“I know, I can see.” His whole body sagged as the darkness trickled away. His heart slowed. Guilt soon settled in.  He didn’t actually know; he hadn’t actually looked. Glancing around, he agreed. They were going to die among paper.

The thing he literally spent his life making obsolete.

“Sorry, Barnes; I didn’t mean to snap. I just really thought, for a minute, that I was going to make it out of this hellhole.”

“James.”

He felt an arm around his shoulder before being on the receiving end of what was easily the most awkward there-there hug he’d ever gotten. “You can call me James.”

“James.” The man against him shivered as he rolled it over his tongue, testing it out. Felt weird, saying the name of the man he’d spent the last few months alternatingly railing against and desperately clinging to in his head; the name Steve had thrown everything away for.

Much better than Bucky, at least. He wasn’t about to die using a name better meant for a squirrel.

“Call me Tony.”


	9. Left or Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been going back and forth with POV because they were separated. Now that they are together, I wondered your thoughts on if that should continue (probably like 1 winter for every 2 tony), if you like it, or just stick with one view.

In the silence that followed their little re-introductions, the truth of their situation finally settled in:  trapped, with limited air, the two super soldiers would suffocate slowly, their bodies rapidly attempting to fix damage that could never stay fixed.

After Howard’s Abuse. After Obadiah. After the Car Crash. After Afghanistan. After the Palladium. After the Wormhole.

After Steve.

After Hydra.

This would be how his life ended. This was where all the finely ground pieces of his soul would end up. He had been ready to die after being left in that bunker—had desperately wanted it—but here, with one of the very men who’d done it, the idea made him furious. This _wasn’t_ how he was going to die; it wasn’t even close.

The cave-in eliminated a lateral exit and, as Tony glanced up at the ceiling where the glow of his chest barely brushed the surface, he mused aloud, “we’re probably too far down to dig ourselves out.”

He felt the Soldier shift slightly in attention. “Yes.”

“Is the escape hatch above or below us?”

“…Below us. One or two floors, maybe.”

“So, theoretically, we might be able to punch our way down.” With a plan in mind, he moved from the warped door they had been perched on, huddled together, and, shoving the bundles of papers out of the way, tried to find the best place to break open the floor.

The Soldier shadowed behind him.

“This spot,” he declared with an exaggerated spreading of his arms. “At the very least, we’ll get more air,” he offered, when James made no move to contribute.

Silence.

“Do you have a better idea?” He asked, getting defensive.

“I need you to move.”

“Oh. Right.” Tony perched on a few piles of papers and waited expectantly.

James circled the spot before kneeling, left leg up.

The vague unease he began to feel became very clear when the Soldier _used the wrong arm_ to punch into the concrete. Making a strangled noise of horror, the genius scrambled back towards the man and wrestled with him before he could _do it again_. An impressive set of cracks radiated across the floor under his bare feet. “What is wrong with you?!”

Whether it was by Extremis or James simply choosing to go down, he managed to ground the Solider and pointedly straddled his chest. Tony pulled the broken—no, shattered—hand closer to himself to see. “You have a metal arm!”

Even with the serum’s rapid healing, he imagined the pain would be excruciating.

The Solider grunted and tried to pull his hand away but Tony latched on like the octopus he could be and refused to agree. “The arm wouldn’t work.” James grabbed hold of his shoulder and tried to pry him off. “This arm works just fine—”

“—Don’t be ridiculous, that’s Vibranium!” He squirmed, not allowing the man the leverage he would need to really force him away. “I’ve seen what the old arm could do; stop being so stubborn,” he growled.

The struggle stopped. Suddenly James was yanking him down, holding him tightly in both arms, their bodies pressed together from shoulder to thigh. He will never admit the embarrassingly long length of time it took to stop thinking about the significantly sized cock pressing against the inside of his thigh and realize the disproportionate strength in the hold.

“I couldn’t convince them…" The tone was soft, embarrassed. "They decided it unwise to give a fully functioning, permanently attached weapon.”

“What about them other guns?”

Not even a smile.

Tony cleared his throat awkwardly. “Ok…Maybe—Maybe I can, you know… take a look at it.” He tried to make it sound like no big deal—like he hadn’t been eyeing that thing since it grabbed him in the lab.

The arms went slack after a moment and they both slowly sat up. Tony made no move to get out of the warm lap; instead, he brought up his knees to cradle the appendage and better trap the light in his chest.

The servos in the man’s arm suddenly realigned, as if trying to release a large amount of heat.

“You overreacted.”

“ _I_ overreacted? Seriously? Your hand looks like cottage cheese!”

“I would have been able to complete the mission just fine.”

And wasn’t that the crux of the problem.

James had treated Tony’s task as a mission. Meeting it with what resources he had; following what was so clearly conditioning to never question an order, never back down, even if it came at a cost to himself.

Like Tony was a handler.

“Please don’t ever hurt yourself like that again,” he begged. Not for him.

“…I will try.”

He appreciated the honesty even as he hated the implication.

A thin black-bladed knife appeared in his vision. “Will this help?”

He nodded. Where the hell had that been hiding?

Unlatching the arm’s plates with what was clearly _not_ the correct tool turned out difficult but eventually doable. However, the moment his fingers made contact the wiring inside, a familiar, unwelcome buzzing filled his brain.

Loud.

Insistent.

He expected pictures, like before, but this time it was more of an impression, a sudden knowledge of just how invasive those wires really were; how they drilled into the depths of James’ brain. An understanding of how the arm anchored not only into his shoulder but into his ribs and spine as well. The sheer volume of information was overwhelming—biology, physics, mechanics, gravity, repair—as if he had walked into a million conversations all at once. And just as sudden as the impressions came, they stopped, and his world shifted again.

Soft, pink-tinted lights, thousands of them, filled his consciousness. Pulsed to some unknown heartbeat. The buzzing in his brain slowly settled and morphed into something he was able to recognize: code.

There were nanites in the arm, he realized. _He was interfacing with the nanites in the arm_.

And the machines called back. Mourned their inability to work with the body they had become to recognize as their own. Shoved at him, the foreign, debilitating code in their makeup that inhibited them from making themselves their best. From making James his best.

Do something, they demanded. Fix this, they begged.

The calls became louder; the pulsing erratic. Tony focused on the inhibitor and _pulled_. The various little lights grew more agitated and a sense of excitement washed over him. With one final tug, the lines finally gave way; the lights went wild.

He watched as the gap left behind snapped shut, as the nanites started regrouping. This must have been the difference from what happened before, he thought. The ability to work together lent the nanites the ability to communicate correctly with him.

Tony immediately began hoarding those protocols, copying and building his own little firewalls—making a specialized place in his mind for the next time this happens. Confining this unforeseen side effect so he wouldn’t be overwhelmed again.

If they got out.

As he finished his construction, as he stroked and praised the nanites for their ingenuity with his mind, he slowly felt himself come back to his body—he wasn’t exactly sure when he’d left.

“—ony! Stark! Stark!”

He flinched. Suddenly everything was _loud_. The rubbing of the papers as they shifted on the shelves, the groan of the concrete around them withstanding untold pressures, a sluicing sound he thought might just be the blood in his veins, the way James’ heartbeat pumped erratically fast.

He felt himself be shook and the over-exaggerated inertia made him nauseous; he could practically feel the air like a soup sloughing against his skin. He opened his eyes, not realizing he’d shut them at some point, and looked at the man desperately holding him

“I’m okay,” he assured. The slight grimace on the Soldier’s face, one he might not have caught if he wasn’t practically seeing the man’s _pores_ , made him attempt to whisper, “I’m okay…”

He didn’t think he was managing it.

“What was that? What happened?”

“How did you...” Shit he was going to be sick. “How did you get control, after the serum?”

The man’s eyes dropped down to the light in his chest for just a second, but he seemed to catch on to what was being asked. He spoke thoughtfully soft, “Focus on something.”

Wow. So fucking helpful.

Tony realized he must have said it out loud when the man began to glare. “Sorry…”

James pulled him close, tucked him underneath his chin, so that his ear pressed against the man’s chest. The erratic heartbeat had tapered off. Quieter now; solid. Tony tried to focus on counting the beats.

One-two. Three-four.

And, slowly, he felt the world settle back down.


	10. To sink or swim

Honest to god, the man was _growling_ at him.

“I don’t understand what just happened.” _And I hate it_ left unsaid.

“Well…I fixed your arm.”

“No, I’m pretty sure you fell asleep. Or had a stroke.”

“Take that back; I am far too young for a stroke!”

“Yeah, _now_.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You appear at least twenty years younger.”

“…I bet my ass looks fantastic.”

James cleared his throat. “Tony.”

“Not that it wasn’t phenomenal before, but 30-year-Tony’s ass could start revolutions.”

“ _Tony._ ”

“What?”

“You’re not going to change the subject; what just happened.”

“I may have, possibly, miscalculated—amidst horrific torture, mind you—the side effects of combining an unstable virus with Vibranium.” He fiddled with the jacket zipper anxiously, dragging it back and forth in quick succession. “One of which… is being able to interface with the nanites in your arm. No big deal.”

The man’s face was the poster child for stoicism, but his pretty ice-blue eyes, not so much. Tony watched as they slide from awe to alarm, only to settle at frustration with a dash of fury. He braced himself for the inevitable lecture.

James slowly reached out and crushed the obnoxious zipper between his metal fingers. “Please explain further.”

“…There was an old attempt at the super soldier serum called Extremis. I thought I’d collected it all up but apparently not.” He began closing up the arm in an attempt to not have to look at the other while he explained. “They made me stabilize it—but I rigged it; I swear.”

He found it important that James believed him. That he didn’t think of him the same way the world did—selfish, egotistical, unmoved by the consequences of his actions. He wanted another Rhodey; another Pepper. Someone always in his corner, even when they yelled at him _all the time_. Someone who understood that, yes, he risked himself, but it wasn’t because he always assumed his ideas were better or that he’d win. It was because he was the least to matter.

“How?”

“I introduced hadronic behavior—essentially, the virus appears stable until it’s used excessively. Then it’s just chance on whether it’ll kill the host. Do it enough and eventually your luck runs out…”

“And they won’t figure that out?”

“Hydra’s not exactly knocking down the doors of ivy-league schools. _But_ ,” he added as the man opened his mouth to protest, “even if they did; not by the time we get out of here and burn them to the ground.”

James’ corresponding smile was extremely feral, all teeth and promised threat. Tony found it _extremely_ arousing.

Seems 30-year-old Tony’s ass wasn’t the only thing in tip-top-shape.

“And that won’t happen to you?”

“No. Probably. Seems the Vibranium is enough of a difference to stabilize its phase… Although I didn’t expect Extremis to use it like a battery.”

“Probably? _Seems_?”

“Well, obviously at the time I wasn’t sure; it’s not like this has been done before. There was a 34% chance of survival.”

“34?!”

“That’s really high!”

“ _That is not high._ ”

“It is in science!”

“How have you survived this long?”

“Pepper says I’m too stubborn to just die but Rhodey says it’s because he pissed off this gypsy when he was 20—I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a gypsy—and this is his punishment. Which, rude.”

James, for the first time since they’d met, finally laughed aloud.

And it was _beautiful_.

The man’s entire face transformed: appled cheeks, crinkles in the corners of the eyes, smile slightly twisted with just a hint of trouble. Tony could just see the heartbreaker he had probably been before his life had gone to shit.

“You’re so very clever, Tony Stark.”

He pretended to scrub at his eyes to cover the blush that _might_ have bloomed.  “No, just lucky.”

“But, how did you get Vibranium?”

And, like that, his good mood soured. “Back in the day, I invented this reactor—”

“—I know about the arc reactor, Tony; it was a standing mission to retrieve one if ever possible.”

“Right. Well. Not concerning. I invented a new element to handle a tiny poisoning problem and that element turned out to be Vibranium.”

“I thought you had the reactor removed; I thought it was encased.” James made a point of tapping gently on the blue disk for emphasis. Pretty little orange starbursts reacted to the pressure.

“I did; it was. In my suit. Before Rogers smashed it into my chest.”

James’ hand immediately retreated, and his expression turned contrite. “Oh.”

“Do you actually understand?” He bit out. “I was so injured I didn’t even realize _liquid metal_ was leaking onto— _into_ my skin; I thought it was blood!” He struggled to stand from the man’s lap and stumbled a few feet out of his reach. “You left me there to die.”

This wasn’t really where he had meant this conversation to go.

He tried to run his hand through his hair but found it knotted with congealed blood. From the man he’d bludgeoned to death only hours ago. “I got frostbite; lost the use of my hands; got taken by _Hydra_. While, what, you and Rogers fucked off to Wakanda—yeah, arm’s a bit of a giveaway, Barnes.”

“Would you really have accepted my help?”

Tony crouched down, wrapping his arms around his knees. “You killed my mom.”

“I did.”

It infuriated him that the man didn’t demand he get over it or even attempt to justify it. He wanted that. To be able to point and say ‘that’s why I should still hate you. Because you’re just like _him_.’

And there was the real issue. Glaring him in the face.

It wasn’t about Barnes. It wasn’t even about his mother. Because after the adrenaline dissipated, after Hydra, he knew the man wasn’t really the one who’d killed her. Honestly, he kind of still blamed Howard. “It wasn’t really you.”

“It was.”

Tony looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Everyone seems to believe that I wasn’t there for it all—that it’s some other personality; that _I’m_ some other personality. But it was me and it was my hand, Stark. If it’s worth anything at all, I’m sorry.”

He propped his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands, breathing out slowly. “Did they use the triggers? Like Zemo?”

“Yes.”

“Could you have fought them?”

“No.”

He nodded and dropped his hands forward so his arms were fully extended in front of him, limp. He was suddenly so very tired.  “I’ve found forgiveness for the things that are not our fault is easy to be given. Understanding when it’s ultimately not our fault but still forgiving us for the part we played—that, means everything. At least to me.” He stood up. “You’re not a fault for what Hydra made you do, James, but, for what it’s worth, I forgive you for the part you played.”

Something passed across James’ face. “It does.”

Tony relaxed. “Okay; so let’s get the fuck out of here—” But with a single step, Tony’s entire world spiraled down to the cold, wet puddle his foot landed in.

Nope.

“James,” he managed, gritting his teeth, “was this water here before?”

The Soldier’s gaze dropped to the reflective pool at his feet. Tony watched as the man’s head swiveled along the path the water followed, passed the boundaries of their lighted area and towards the wall opposite of the doorway. Noiselessly rising, he slipped out of the genius’ view.

He scrapped his foot free of the liquid, moving backwards, and let his entire body shake the clammy feeling off. He spent the precious minutes of James’ disappearance counting the completely reasonable reasons the puddle was there.

Pipe broke.

… Pipe broke.

...James secretly peed and just wasn’t fessing up.

A garbled, wrenching sound shattered through his very long, comprehensive list and he suddenly found himself faced with a portion of the metal shelving—which he was 100% sure was bolted into the walls because building codes people—careening for the spot he’d been standing in. Tony skipped back to avoid getting hit as the giant paperweight fell to the floor with a deafening clang.

“What the hell?!”

He assumed the accompanying grunt was an apology. “It’s coming from the wall.”

“What?” He hopped over the avalanche of papers to get a closer look. Sure enough, streams of water riveted over the Soldier’s still-healing human hand, pressed just below one of the larger cracks in the cement.

Just a pipe; it’s fine, he thought.

“This wall must face the lake.”

It’s No Longer Fine.

"Lake? What lake?"

The man moved his swollen hand along the spiderweb of cracks and suddenly, in horror, Tony knew exactly what he was doing: looking for the weakest point.

“No. _No._ No! … No…” His use of varying exclamations and volumes seemed to fall on deaf ears; James was clearly unmoved as he turned to look at him.

“It’s the only option.”

“What about the escape hatch?!”

“I’m not actually sure that exists,” the man admitted. Like that wasn’t something _huge_ they should maybe talk about.

Right now. Instead of this.

His father’s voice, reminding him to never show weakness, echoed in his head and it took every ounce of control to try and pull himself back together. To not start shaking his hands as imaginary pain started to lick at them. To keep his breathe from becoming gasps. To keep the tears back as the memories of that tank, of the water pouring in, of useless struggles and burning limbs, gained ground in the rising panic. “You don’t understand; I can’t.”

A hand awkwardly settled on the back of his neck, the thumb swiping through the hairs at the nape in slow, repetitive motions.

It was grounding. Comforting.

“Do you want to die here?”

He thought maybe that was as comforting as James got.

Like a child, he moved to step up on the other’s boots to get away from the thin line of water rising at his feet. “It isn’t that simple.”

The man nuzzled into his hair before replying, “sometimes, it is, Ежик*.”

Tony curled his fingers into the straps of James’s uniform.

He took a deep breath.

He was fucking Ironman. He’d survived abuse and pain and open-heart surgery in a cave; he’d survived heartache and poisoning and more than one death wish. Alright, so those all weren’t necessarily exchangeable but purposely drowning himself in freezing lake water for the 46% chance of survival was _nothing_.

Totally.

Absolutely.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the encouragement. It's super wonderful. 
> 
> *Ежик, pronounced "yo-zh-ik" (zh is like the "ge" in mirage if it helps), means little hedgehog (pet name)  
> Shout out to DemonicReader for helping me with that 
> 
> Few notes for this chapter:  
> 1\. I have a very rudimentary understanding of particle physics so if there is a misrepresentation, I'm very sorry.
> 
> As I understand it, some but not all hadrons (a type of particle) are stable, but, given enough energy applied (like maybe when a certain virus consumes a lot of it to deal with lots of damage), then the hadron will fall apart (into little quarks and gluons, which I imagine look like those little sock yeasts from Good Eats) BUT if there are enough different kinds of hadrons, potentially they will stay stable. Since Vibranium is not real, we're gonna let it do that.  
> P.S. Tony Stark is a genius, hand-wave hand-wave
> 
> 2\. Comic book science--that catch all for idk what the hell I'm talking about.  
> Obviously liquid metal is likely not survivable but, in my mind, Tony Stark can survive everything thrown at him.  
> Since nature likes things in perfect shapes (golden ratio, flower centers, etc), we'll just postulate that the virus gathered it all up and put it where the majority was (in his chest where the reactor was) in a pretty pretty circle. Lastly, since the arc reactor glows blue when it's used as a battery, the vibranium here is going to do the same. (plus, I like his little night light...)


	11. Laughing is Loving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long; i could not get this to turn out right. Still not too sure about it

It had occurred to the Solider that this was another test—like the fist through the floor—like the one he’d failed. Tony was providing him another opportunity to prove his adequacy as a mate. Prove his claim.

He refused to fail again.

James shifted the hand at the back of Tony’s neck and eased his thumb under the man’s jaw. Such a vulnerable spot, he noted, and yet Tony didn’t even flinch as he applied just enough pressure to tip his head and force their gazes together.

"I know you can handle this, Tony; we’ll do it together."

A series of emotions flitted across that handsome face before finally settling on what he might have termed stubborn determination. He smiled, eliciting one in return, as that wicked, dark animal inside him purred—there was the man the Soldier had come for; there was the man that Hydra had promised him.

James slid his hands slowly down the man's arms—Tony took a deep, calming breath—, over his hips—Tony straightened his shoulders—and finally across to the back of his thighs—Tony raised an eyebrow at him—before suddenly lifting.

 _Fuck_ if Stark didn’t fit perfectly spread across his hips. Skin warm, eyes wide, plush mouth slack. Even the indignant little squawk the man produced as he was forced to encircle James’ neck for stability was flawless.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

“Just because I know you can, doesn't mean you have to start early,” he reasoned, carrying the man across the room. Well out of the way of where the water would start pouring in, James let go and thoroughly enjoyed the man’s slide back to the ground.

Status: Passed

Tony hit him in the chest. “What is wrong with you?! Bridal carry, people!”

He shrugged, clearly not repentant. “You disliked being over my shoulder earlier…”

The man huffed in indignation and hit him again. “Stop carrying me then!” He rubbed his face, as if trying to wipe the blush off that James couldn’t look away from. “Not appropriate, Frisky Flakes,” he groaned.

The Soldier preened at his first nickname—he had heard all about them in Wakanda.

Status: _Definitely_ passed

Assured, he made his way back to the wall and aligned himself with the most critical of the cracks. Rechecking his math, he proceeded to settle into a practice stance. Rolled his shoulder. Measured his breathe. Raised his fist—

“—Wait! Wait!”

James froze and looked over his shoulder.

Tony took in a stuttered breath, clearly trying to come up with an excuse to delay. “What if there’s a shark on the other side?”

The man looked so _serious_. “It’s a lake.”

“Bull sharks have been sighted in lakes!”

“That seems… not correct.”

“This is Hydra, they probably have some sort of bull shark-Nessie hybrid that can smell us through the concrete.”

James… actually did not have a response for that. (Don’t tell Stark about the man-eating octopus hybrids)

Well shit.

He could see Tony preparing to argue further and wracked his brain to figure out how to help. Partners helped. He cleared his throat awkwardly when the answer came. “What do you get when you cross a squirrel with a spider?”

“… You saw a squirrel-spider hybrid?!” The man looked around his feet, like such a creature would show up now that it’d been voiced.

He turned back to the wall. “It’s a joke, Stark.”

“Oh.”

“What do you get when you cross a squirrel with a spider?” He repeated.

“…I don’t know, a spider with A.D.D.? What?”

“A bug that will run up your leg and eat your nuts.”

 James smirked, pleased and relieved, at the rather hysterical little laugh that bubbled up from Tony’s throat. Using the distraction, he punched the wall as hard as he could with his metal hand.

The force was far beyond what his old arm could have done. The wall cracked, a spiral of webbing radiating out, and, before he was able to even attempt to evade, collapsed under the opposing force of the water beyond.

\----

“—hit, shit, shit! Please wake up; wake up! James!”

A stabbing of pain laced up the back of his skull; his limbs heavy. James knew this feeling—the lack of searing agony in his back only meant the correction hadn’t begun in earnest yet. His head lulled to the side, chin tucked into his shoulder. He must have done something very bad; did he kill another Handler?

No, that usually just meant the chair.

The Soldier tried opening his eyes—it’s better to face corrections head on, he reminded; any show of weakness only extends them—but nothing really registered as old memories clouded his vision.

“James; _James—_ ”

He failed to stop the full-body flinch as warm hands grazed his cheeks and cupped his face.

It must have been a bad hit if he was imagining Stark comforting him.

He tried to pull enough awareness in to see if there was any sensation of blood running down the back of his neck but he kept getting distracted by the thumb stroking his cheek. Concussion; possible skull fracture.

It must have been top brass, he thought. They must have been discussing Stark again.

**_Но с учетом этого духа, нам необходимо обеспечить согласие._ **

**_Они составят изумительную пару - Солдат и Механик.*_ **

“—please, you promised we’d do this together and you really owe me for that mortifying carrying thing earlier—”

James blinked slowly as something wet splashed against his face.

“—If you don’t snap out of this, I’m not giving you that parade—”

His brows furrowed as he registered a flash of blue.

“Oh! That was something—Yeah, okay. Parade? No.”

He felt his hand grasped and yanked from the chains holding him down—wait, what?—and suddenly his fingers touched warm skin and covered the blue glow.

Arc reactor blue. His favorite.

That wasn’t right. Stark didn’t get the arc reactor for at least twenty more years—more?

The sound of rushing water suddenly filled his ears and he realized his limbs were heavy from water pooling at his waist, not metal. James’ breath hitched, not quite a sob but more of a struggle to pull in air.

“Thank god… Come on, James; that’s it.”

He felt fingers try to run through his hair but the knots just ended up yanked; it did good to bring him fully to the present. “Ow. Ow!”

“You _asshole_.” Tony started trying to shake him via the straps on his chest but there was little force behind it. Frustration, James thought, reminded of that little cat he used to live with hissing when he was gone too long. “Don’t scare me like that!”

He couldn’t help but smile as he struggled to grab the man’s hands and stop him. He was here, with Stark. Free. Home. “I guess Shark-Nessie packs a punch…”

Tony let out an exaggerated groan. “Uhhggh—who knew the Winter Soldier was a fucking troll,” the man grumbled even as he acquiesced and let James hold his hands.

He felt himself settle as he twined and untwined their fingers together with odd fascination. “Thank you…”

“Yeah, well, one freak out for five of mine; seems fair, I guess…”

James shuddered once last time, ridding himself of the lingering tension and accepted Tony’s help to stand. “We should move as close to the entrance as possible,” he offered in the ensuing, awkward silence, reaching out to pick the man up without thinking it through.

“Tsst! No! No, what did I say!”

James could feel himself blush as he dropped his hands. “Sorry…”

“That’s right; I am perfectly capable of wading myself.”

“But you shouldn’t have to.” He thought it maybe sounded a bit too earnest. Concussion, he reasoned.

A look of surprise crossed the man’s face before he visibly softened. “…At least carry me like a proper lady this time…”

James practically purred aloud when Tony reached out for him. He swiftly scooped him up, bridal style, and began slogging through the water.

“Don’t look so happy…” the man grumbled.

They walked in silence, the move slow as James fought the swirling current and fully-submerged piles by following along the shelves for support.

“What is an Astronaut’s favorite key on a keyboard…”

“What’s a keyboard?”

Tony sputtered and James couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m joking… If I know what an Astronaut is, I probably know what a computer is.”

“Such a goddamn troll! Stop ruining my joke!”

“Okay; okay. I don’t know, the space bar?”

“…. You ruin everything.”

“Don’t say that! I’m sorry; tell me another.”

“No.”

“Tony….”

Once they managed to get as close as possible to the opening, James boosted his companion up onto the shelving to remain out of the water.

“What do you call a dog with no legs?”

“I don’t know, what?”

“It doesn’t matter, he isn’t coming anyway.”

James laughed and something in his chest lightened.

“Thank you.”

He glanced up but immediately adverted his eyes politely. “It was funny.”

“No, I mean, thank you. For indulging with the water thing; for coming to get me.” _You didn’t have to,_ unsaid.

‘Indulging’ rubbed him the wrong way but he said nothing. Instead, the Soldier hoisted himself up so they could look at each other and asked, “What does a radiator say when you put your hands on it?”

“I’m trying to have a moment here before we drown.”

“We won’t be drowning, Ежик.” He thought maybe Tony was trying to glare him into submission.

“Ugh, _fine._ What? ‘Taste like chicken’?”

“No, ‘your hands are so warm’!”

“… That doesn’t make sense; radiators are hot.”

“Not in Russia.”

“… Are you making a communist joke?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. these jokes are obviously not mine so thanks google
> 
> *Translation (thank you Poludnitsa for providing this!!)  
> But with that spirit, we would need to ensure Compliance.   
> Won’t they make such a striking pair—the Soldier and the Mechanic.


	12. Reconsquider Your Life Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I've inadvertently made Hydra's slogan "Hydra: because why not?"

Tony managed well when the water reached his ankles and there was no more shelving to crawl away on—and, yes, he may have tried to fit himself into that little space up by the ceiling, but he did so with dignity, people.

Dignity.

He was even fine when it sloshed against his knees and started soaking into his jacket. No images of being weighed down with rocks, without a way out at all.

At. All.

By the time it reached his waist, Tony would maybe admit that he might not be doing as well as he pretended but he refused to be any less stoic than James, who looked completely unphased even as they slowly lost all their air supply and became submerged in ungodly cold, muddy water, with no fucking means to undo this horrible idea.

Totally Fine.

But his brain started really turning on him when the water got to his shoulders.

Freezing water; debilitated hands slamming on the boxed-in walls; chest beginning to hurt as the body yelled to breathe and the brain chanted to hold out like maybe _this time_ he wasn’t going to drown.  Being waterboarded in the cave had made the actual drowning unsurprising but there is something inherently wrong with being conscious as your body makes the decision to circumvent your brain because, while you’re _definitely_ dying holding your breath, why not see if you can survive the opposite.

It was the moments after that had been the worst, if he were honest with himself. Aspirating water was _painful_ , no doubt, but the loss of consciousness afterwards is guaranteed. The violated feeling of rotten water—oh Christ, it was probably this same water, he realized—gurgling in your lungs and throat, having to turn over and cough it all out, putting pressure on your injuries even as death desperately clung to your skin, was terrifying. You kept coughing even if there was nothing left to retch up; your brain on fire and convinced you’re still going under.

Twice. Five. Ten times.

"Here."

He flinched, startled out of his spiral, to find James holding out the black-bladed knife they’d used earlier on his arm, hilt first.

“Shit. Did I mess up? Is there water in your arm; did I not close it right?” Tony grabbed hold of the metal hand, pulling it close to check what he could. James seemed content to let him run his fingers over the metal plates.

“Peace of mind. In case you meet shark-Nessie.”

“Ha-ha, you’re hilarious.”

“I am being serious.”

He couldn’t actually tell, as the light from his chest was submerged and barely illuminated the space between them, but he _felt_ like the man was secretly smiling. “So you believe it’s possible?”

“Of course not; but it will make you feel better and, if you feel better, I will feel better.”

It unnerved him with how easily James seemed to be able to read him—he was supposed to be a Stark, all flash and unflappable attitude—but he wasn’t so prideful he wouldn’t accept the gesture. Tony took the knife and clutched it tightly between his fingers. “Thank you…”

James nodded.

A ripple went through the water around them.

“What was that?” He practically whispered it, like that was going to hide their presence from whatever the source was. Tony watched in horror as James dunked under the water without hesitation.

Another ripple and, listening, Tony heard a faint pop as the sound tried to make the jump to air with little success. James burst back out of the water; Tony might have screamed.

“We need to go.”

“What? Why? What is it?” He demanded, resisting the assassin’s tugs. He slipped off the shelving and tried not to panic as the water went over his ears.

He heard the cracking sound clearly under the water.

Shit.

Tony knew exactly what that was; the cracks in the concrete floor were widening out under the pressure.

He felt James hand latch to his as he began to hyperventilate. If there was one thing Tony knew, it was physics and they were definitely not surviving the floor collapse.

“—Tony! Stark! It's okay…”

A hand cupped his face.

“Take the coat off.”

He responded in an incredulous grunt.

“It's just going to weigh you down; _take it off_.”

Under the right circumstances, he imagined that authoritative tone would be incredibly sexy; this wasn’t it. But despite his hackles rising at being ordered, Tony struggled out of the garment as another crack rippled through the water around his ears. Survival trumps all.

But seriously. Why was he constantly being made to be naked?!

“Good…” James re-laced their hands together. “Take a deep breath, Tony; we’re going together. We're getting out.”

That’s right; they were getting out. Out of here; out of hydra. There would be no tank walls; no drowning; no death. He would survive and he would go home. He would see the sky.

He could do this.

He did shit like this all the time.

He was Ironman.

Filling his lungs from the last sliver of air, Tony squeezed James hand and followed. Getting to the hole wasn't hard—they had been practically on top of it with the shelving—and the blue glow helped James navigate the edge with his metal arm. Overcoming what was left of the incoming current had been slightly more difficult but necessity was the best motivator.

Tony scrambled and launched himself off the wall—it didn’t even matter if it was up or down; he simply needed to move laterally and make it out of the impending vacuum. Letting go of James’ hand wasn’t ideal but, with an obvious task, he could keep the panic at bay all on his own.

The sound of the floor failing was deafening under the water. Like an air siren going off next to his ear. Even with the head start, he could feel the immediate pull as water began trying to eagerly fill the new void inside the breach. 

Tony dropped the knife and swam as hard and fast as he could for what felt like eternity. The scientist in him logicked that wasn't possible and noted that his body wasn't growing tired like it would have were it still human but that didn't make the experience any less surreal. 

But this was the last thing he had to do. The last fight he had to win to get home.

Right up until he was slammed sideways by something _large_. 

Fuck.

He opened his eyes once he stabilized (huge mistake) and, in the murky glow, found himself staring at an iridescent eye. A fucking _eye_ the size of his _goddamn face_ —and wasn't that the shit of nightmares.

Without the knife, he was pretty helpless so he did the only thing he could think of: he poked the ever living fuck out of it.

It was surprisingly easy to puncture and the eye promptly shriveled up—can said nightmares get more fuel? Yes, yes they can.

He was never, ever, ever eating seafood again.

Tony found himself tumbling away in a cloud of ink as the creature jettisoned water at him in retreat. His back slammed into the lake bed. Tony planted his feet and launched himself off like before, using all his strength. Once breached, he gasped for air and paddled frantically toward the shore. 

Just as his fingers and toes managed to grasped at the rocky shore, a searing pain lit up along his leg and he found himself dragged back towards the deep.

No, no, no, no.

His hand latched onto a rock and, twisting, he violently stabbed out at the pink-tinged tentacle wrapped around his calf. The thing only yanked harder. He dug his heels in the ground, acutely aware of the shorter tentacles waiting to latch on when he got within reach, let go of the shore completely and used both hands to slam the sharper side of the rock over and over into the tapered section of the appendage. It eventually severed and what was left hung on by the serrated teeth of the suckers embedded into his skin, twitching a little.

He thought he might have seen a familiar wisp of orange streak across the hide as the remaining tentacle retreated.

Tony was pretty sure he was screaming as he scrambled backwards like a crab onto dry land and didn't stop until no water could feasibly touch him. He gasped in air and promptly dry heaved his panic. "Fucking squid. Fucking squid. Fucking squid," He chanted, manic. His whole body shivered, curled in a ball, as Extremis slowly drained the adrenaline out to stabilize him.

James.

Tony unfurled to go back towards the water only to come face-to-face with the muzzle of an assault rifle. He really had to stop looking at things.

 “Hands up!” At least, that’s what he assumed was said as he didn’t speak whatever was being shouted.

Tony lifted his hands up, teeth chattering. “You don’t understand; I have to go get my friend!”

The combat-fatigued man shined his flashlight first in Tony’s face before swinging it down to the dangling barbel as he spoke to, presumably, someone out of Tony’s line of sight.

“I don’t have time for this,” he yelled; the man yelled back in what sounded suspiciously like Turkish with Slavic words thrown in. Tony slammed his hand against the muzzle to veer it from himself and kicked the man's feet out from under him.  Yanking the gun—he _definitely_ wasn’t about to go back to shore without bullets—away, he slammed the butt into the guy’s head a bit harder than he needed to. (Thank you, Happy)

The familiar click of a second gun being loaded, pressed to the back of his head, and Tony knew he hadn’t been quick enough. Holding his hands up once more, he waited for instructions or death.

But, with a gurgled sound, the press of the muzzle was lifted away and Tony turned to watch as, like a vengeful demon, the Winter Soldier, having grasped the man from behind by the throat, brutally gutted his second assailant like a fish with what, Tony noted, looked suspiciously like the beak of one of those squids.

Nope, never eating seafood again.

Breathing hard, the assassin dropped his kill with a distinctive squish only exposed organs could make and grabbed hold of Tony as if to reassure himself that the genius was real.

Tony was immediately assaulted with the copper scent of blood mixed with the briny scent of, what he could only guess, was dead squid and ink. He tried pushing the man back to look him over but James just smooshed his face further into the crook of Tony’s neck and squeezed tighter.

“Let go; I need to check if you’re okay.”

“Fine,” the man grunted, unmoving.

“James…”

With obvious reluctance, the Soldier let go but kept his right arm tucked around Tony’s shoulders.  Large swatches of cloth were missing, and lines of puncture holes and ring-shaped bruises crisscrossed every which way. Tony gently touched a particularly gnarled cut along the man’s clavicle.

Far better than he’d expected, he thought. That is, until he pushed the man further off to reveal the right arm of the uniform was completely gone, the skin looking like ground beef as dark blood oozed out and mixed with squid ink.

“Jesus, James, you’re—” He didn’t really know how to finish the sentence and just made a sort of hand waving motion to encompass the absurd state of the man.

“It’ll heal.”

“That’s not the point. Are you okay? Of course you’re not; ignore that—”

“—Are you alright?”

Tony was derailed from any sort of response as he was checked over and man-handled. “Stop! I’m fine!”

“What is that then?”

He felt James grab his foot to look at the barbel. Before he could even utter a word to explain, the man unceremoniously ripped it out. “What the hell? Was that really necessary?!”

“Do not whine; your virus will fix it.”

Tony kicked him hard.

“Was that really necessary?” The assassin parroted.

“Squid pro quo, asshole."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Obviously real squids do not live in lakes but let's go with hydra wanting a kraken; plus, this would have been way less cool with a giant sized carp (or whatever the hell lives in lakes)   
> Also, I did see some theories of these squids using other bioluminescent creatures to help them hunt by so maybe if Tony hadn't poked it, it would have been fine but we'll never know!


	13. Some Questions Shouldn't be Asked

James had agreed—and by agree, Tony means he had a meltdown because fuck you James he was not walking balls-free through the forest because they didn’t have _time_ for him to be changing out in the open and, _no,_ there would be no carrying off this goddamn mountain no matter how proper you did it—to stripping the soldiers and letting Tony change in the woods.

But the moment they had found an ‘acceptable’ spot, James had practically keeled over on his feet. So now Tony sat, with his back to a tree, knees bent and spread wide to accommodate James' mass between them, as the soldier pinned him in place, back to chest, and stubbornly worked to tie the too-large boot onto Tony’s right foot.

“It’s fine,” James grumbled.

“It’s not fine,” he admonished and continued to carefully pour the water from one of the two canteens they’d confiscated over James’ raw arm to wash out the ink from the wounds. He tried to be as gentle as possible, lightly dabbing with the portion of his pants he’d ripped off to use as a rag, but the way the man periodically tensed against him when he drew near the deeper gouges told him he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. “You almost passed out.”

“I was just trying to sit down; you’re over-reacting.”

“Yeah, _head first_.” He nudged the second canteen with his free foot. “Drink some more water.”

“I’m fine.” James put down the leg and picked up his other to add the second boot.

“You’re not.”

“I’m fine.”

“James.”

“Tony.”

Tony stopped what he was doing and held up one of the canteens. He wiggled it annoyingly until James growled and swiped it away. He watched to make sure the man actually drank it before going back to his ministrations.

Despite the circumstances, Tony found this all to be rather nice. For the first time in a long time—god, how long had it been since Siberia? He should probably ask—he was finally wearing pants. Glorious, beautiful, _dry_ pants. And if he leaned to the right just a little, he could even watch the sun chase the stars to bed.

Because he was outside; because he was _free._

Red to orange, yellow to white, blue to indigo then fading to inky black. After the wormhole, even just that small patch of obsidian would have given him panic attacks. Now though, he couldn’t remember ever seeing such a beautiful sight; he certainly hadn’t believed he’d ever get the chance to again.

But most of all, it was all rather nice because he had James tucked safely in his arms, alive. Because less than a day in and despite all of his previous experiences, Tony Stark had gotten so very attached to one rather awkward, stubborn James Buchanan Barnes.

And he needed to enjoy it while he could.

The radio continuously squawked incomprehensible demands followed by the rat-tat-tat of automatic rifles echoing amongst the trees; a reminder that they still had large swaths of military men swarming his demolished prison across the water that needed avoiding.

“They’ve found the squids.”

“You can understand what they’re saying?” Tony untangled the shirt he’d spiraled with one of the knives into a makeshift bandage and began to dress the wounds shut.

“Yes, Hydra required several languages.” He absently rubbed Tony’s calf as he contemplated it. “Albanian is one of my favorites,” the Soldier confessed, sounding surprised.

“So that’s where we are…” Starting at the top, he crisscrossed the bandages, careful to leave the elbow unhindered. “Is that too tight?”

“No.”

When he was satisfied, he tied it off and proceeded drape himself across the man’s back, his chin tucked over the metal shoulder. The servos in the metal arm whirred to life, despite no movement, in a bid to dissipate heat that didn’t exist. Again. Tony was beginning to think it was James’ tell. Like a smile.

Or a little metal purr.

“What happens now?”

James picked up the phone they’d found among the pockets of his pants—did he mention that he now had pants?—and flipped it open. Tony noted the two knives they’d also found were no longer in the pile with their commandeered radio and rifles. “We’ll head down towards the towns… Try and find reception.”

Tony took a steadying breath. “Is that really necessary?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re hurt. Why not just wait until Captain Awesome finds us? The squids will keep those guys busy,” he nodded back towards the lake, “until then.”

James pulled away and turned to look at him. “Is that what you think? That he’s somewhere in these woods?”

“You’re telling me he’s not?”

“Tony, he’s not anywhere near here.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Would I lie to you?”

“Yes!!” Tony pointed towards the lake for emphasis. “Case in point, escape hatches!”

“We don’t know I actually lied; it could very well be there.” When it was clear Tony had not been swayed, the Soldier added, “Do you want me to go digging about for the exit?”

“Yes, yes I do.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

Tony gasped with unnecessary exaggeration. “How dare you.”

James smiled, seemingly despite himself, and captured Tony’s chin between his thumb and index fingers. “You don’t need to be nervous, Tony… I am not lying. No Captain Awesome; no black widow; no birds.”

“But that’s who you’ll be calling, right? He might not be hiding in these woods somewhere, but he’ll be coming. For you.”

Again.

“I’d never let him near you.”

“That’s a _bit_ harsh; I wasn’t the only one fighting—”

 “—I _mean_ I won’t let him get close enough to ever hurt you again—any of them. I swear.”

“Oh… Wait. Why do you keep saying ‘them’?”

James seemed pained for a moment, clearly realizing his mistake. A familiar dread coiled in Tony’s stomach with each passing moment.

“…The Avengers are all in Wakanda, Tony… He broke them out.”

“They are _not_ Avengers anymore,” he hissed. Tony wrenched his face from the man’s grip and dropped his head against the trunk of the tree.

So it wasn’t that the Avengers hadn’t been a family—it was that _he_ wasn’t included in it.

Tony swallowed down the lump in his throat. “When?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“So right after. Right after he left me there to die, he went to go get his friends—it’s nice to know he can have more than one!” He hit his head on the trunk a few times, feeling stupid.

A hand intercepted his knocks, cradling his head to stop him. “I came for you.”

The response burned in his chest; a question he didn’t want to ask because, deep in his heart, Tony was sure he already knew its answer: James had only come to repay a debt he felt he owed. Or, a darker part whispered in his ear, for what a Stark could offer to the family the man had clearly found in Wakanda in exchange.

Because you, stupid boy, Obadiah’s condescending little voice echoed, will always be nothing except the golden goose.

But Tony asked the question anyway.

 “But _why_?”

Because, he had learned, the only way to put the pieces back together, was to kill the delusions that shattered them in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be up soon (mostly done, but it seems I'm not good with heart-confessing monologues)   
> I would view this and the next chapter as the end of the first arc? Although that implies I actually had a plan...


	14. But Some Answers Should Definitely be Edited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to learn what James really wants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this isn't a disappointing revelation to anyone or that I over-hyped it. 
> 
> I could end the story here, but hopefully people would like to see act 2: emotionally stunted but badass Tony and James figure out their shit? If you guys do, would you want me to open a new story (make this a series) or just keep going in this one? Not all the familiar with how that works here :)

The first time the Soldier had encountered Tony Stark was when the man had been five, in a SHIELD lab he had been tasked to infiltrate and eliminate; when Howard had traded the boy for his life.

By then, he would have been as close to the Asset as Hydra would ever achieve, broken and remade enough that his sole focus had simply become survival. Survive the mission; survive the calibration; survive Hydra. For what, he couldn’t have told you, but to survive was to endure. And endure was all he understood.

Until the boy, with those large, whiskey eyes.

Suddenly far too close, the child chittered softly, explaining mechanics far beyond the Soldier’s knowledge, before calmly concluding that he loved the arm but, quite frankly, could do better. _The sheer audacity of this child_ , he thought, to stare death in the face and insult him without blinking. It stirred a feeling that admittedly took the Soldier far too long to identify; a feeling he had no memory of experiencing before.

Something he might have named Delight.

So he had shot Howard in the leg.

Missing all the essential bits, the lingering damage would remind the coward what the Asset would inevitably forget: this is mine now.

Among Howard’s whining and the little boy’s giggles, for the first time, the Soldier understood the meaning of _satisfaction_.

With the experience almost immediately erased, he hadn’t thought of the brown-eyed child again until almost a decade later when he had been defrosted for the new brass. As he fought at their pleasure, they whispered among themselves.

_The Stark boy would be a great asset to Hydra_ , they had said. _He already showed promise beyond his father; he would shape the future._

_But with that spirit, we would need to ensure Compliance._

_Won’t they make such a striking pair—the Soldier and the Mechanic._

As he snapped his opponent’s neck, the Soldier had considered the word, Pair. Neither a Handler nor an Asset; not the same but equal.

Two halves that make a complete set.

As far as he understood, no such person existed—he had always been singular. No replacement, no equivalent. Hydra had tried, of course, with relative success but even while the little spiders had gotten equals in their classmates, they had not been Paired.

Hydra was promising him a _half_. A mate. Someone better together.

It would be nice, he had thought, to be in a Pair then. To have someone that was _his_.

What he would do with such a person? Where would he fit? His room then had consisted of walls he could touch if his arms were held wide and a cot just big enough for himself. A place like that would be no good for his person. A place like _this_ was no good for his person.

So he’d made his choice, the corrections worth it: he would never allow Hydra to have his half.

So he had shot the brass in the head.

The chair did not break him quite so much that time.

Again, the experience erased, he hadn’t thought of either until he was given the mission to kill Howard Stark. Until he opened the file on the family and saw a picture of the boy with large, whiskey eyes. Until something dark and possessive whispered back: _Mine._

After that, the hole that had grown larger, suddenly became _louder._ Screaming at him when he forgot that there was something important; something important that he simply couldn’t lie down and quit because of. The feral creature inside him reawaked. Fought. _Thrived._

With the failure of the other Soldiers, renewed talks among the top ranks began about converting Tony Stark. Extolling to the Winter Soldier the benefits of the man they envisioned his equal: the things he could make you, the missions you would be able to complete together, how the world would quiver in fear of the Soldier and Mechanic. Hydra would reign supreme.

Together, they had said, you would be able to do anything.

Like eradicate _you_ , he had thought.

So he shot every one of them. Shot them with prejudice and then shot every person around them. From the outside, he had become ill-tempered and unpredictable. His confinement was tightened; the punishments magnified.

And when he’d finally managed to be free, the Soldier had remembered the promises he had been made. An equal, a partner. A Half. When the very man had caught the Winter Soldier’s bullet without effort and with a smirk, that itch in him died; that screaming finally quieted.

An equal, indeed.

He had been promised an impossible creature and yet, they had never managed to even scratch the surface of who this man was. The hole that ate at James’ soul ate at Stark’s as well but where James was only sin, Tony Stark was brilliance and defiance wrapped in flippancy and passion.

He was broken. He was perfect. And he was _his._

But even _he_ knew you don’t just _say_ that. Not unless you want to be rejected on principle: no one _owns_ Tony Stark, the man would surely say. Least of all, someone like _you_.

But he hadn’t actually thought about what to say instead. James didn’t want to lie—he had already done it with the parents (how exactly was he to feel remorse for an abuser and a neglector when he had killed children?). Truth was important between equals. Between partners. He wouldn’t make the Rogues’ mistake. (but maybe not mention the _mine_ part quite yet)

“You don’t know me,” he started, “but I have woken up to you a thousand times, Tony Stark. Relearned you in debriefs and reports, in the things that you’ve made and the plans you’ve destroyed. And it isn’t the genius or the millionaire—”

“—Billionaire, now.”

“—Really?”

“Sorry.”

“It isn’t the billionaire, or the playboy or the philanthropist or eventually Ironman that made you my звезда in that hellhole, Tony, it was the spitfire and the wit and the resilience you showed every time someone tried to knock you down. Knowing you, even from afar, forced me to make _choices_ and I know that sounds so _stupid_ and simple but I stopped making those long ago. You made me—make me—choose. And I _feel_ when I do.”

The Soldier, very uncomfortable, attempted to tuck the man’s greasy hair out of his face, watching the emotions war across it, like he had seen Romanov do for the dumb bird. “I came for you because I wanted the chance to know the person that made my sins worth surviving. I came for you because I remember everything and yet I feel _nothing_ except when it comes to you.”

James pushed the tears away from Tony’s cheeks. “And it doesn’t matter if you tell me to go or hate me, because I will always come for you, Tony. I’m going to always choose you.”

Tony sniffled, shyly rubbing his nose with the back of his hand in an attempt to cover his leaky display. “…I think that’s the most you’ve ever said…” He rasped.

James leaned in, touching foreheads. “Don’t get me started on spider-squirrels then…”

Tony tittered quietly and sniffled. His hand found the Soldier’s and squeezed.

“Come on…” James stood and helped the genius to his feet. Picking up their haul, he took hold of Tony’s hand again and led him away from that nightmare place; he took hold of Tony’s hand and led him home.

Staying amidst the trees, they set about hiking down what turned out to be a rather treacherous slog. Even with their enhancements, the climb down took hours but they managed to avoid any run ins by staying away from the road.

Tony didn’t say a word.

By the time they decided to rest, the Soldier had twisted himself into knots. There wasn’t really a way back from this; he had shown his hand.

Not that he’d actually accept a rejection (see re: his) but the idea of it made something hurt in his chest. He had said the wrong thing; had failed another test.

His person hated him.

He watched Tony perch on a rock and fidget with the cap of their remaining canteen.

In all those years, it had never occurred to the Soldier that he might actually _like_ his Pair. Tony had been a symbol—the first mission he had assigned himself—but watching and admiring from afar was not the same thing as caring. And it seemed James _cared_. Because the person he had found in the bunker was extraordinary. Addicting.

Maybe it was time he tried learning to be someone worth him.

“So, if I’m your star, why do you call me little hedgehog?”

James felt himself blushing.

_Fu-ck…_

“Yeah—genius. Knows languages too, Winterberry.”

He scrubbed his face with his hands, sighing. How had he not thought about this?

“Because…” He cleared his throat, dropping his hands to his sides. “Because you’re prickly if you’re rubbed the wrong way and you’re rather…”

“Rather?”

“…Small.” He made the universal signal for ‘little’ with his hands. “They’re very tiny, you know.”

“What?!”

“It’s cute!”

“Fucking Christ. Don’t ever call me that again!”

“I am going to be calling you that again.”

James felt his body relax, muscle by muscle, as Tony ranted about where James to shove it and how he was a ‘totally normal height’. The Soldier refrained from pointing out that it really just made the man perfectly tuckable.

“—when we get home, I am putting quills in all your shit!”

He stopped short. “Home?”

Tony crossed his arms over his chest and pointedly stared up at the clear blue sky. “Yeah, well, maybe… maybe that’d be, you know, good. For you.” He drummed his fingers against his arm. “Feelings wise.”

James laced his hands behind his back and emulated looking up at the sky as well. “That’d be nice… Someone ought to be there when you get stuck.”

“Is that a hedgehog joke?” The shorter man growled.

“I would never…”

Tony huffed.

“They also do that.”

“Aarg!” Tony stood up. “Just—Do we have reception? Can I go home?!”

James unclipped the phone from his straps and opened it. With barely a bar, he tried the number he’d memorized four bases ago. To the only woman who legitimately terrified him.

Even if they had yet to meet in person.

He recalled, back then, not thinking much of it when the cameras in the palace had started following his movements—sure, he noted it, stayed vigilant because of it but he had expected it. After all, he had just recently tried to murder the archer and witch _again_ after rather hypocritical responses to Stark’s missing report.

_He’s probably off on some island, hiding from responsibility._

_Leave it to Stark to expect other people to clean up his messes._

It wasn’t until he had woken up one morning to find an array of pictures of Bucky Barnes, smiling, littering the screen of his tablet that he had become outright paranoid.

Because, as he stared at the photos, he realized he hadn’t been smiling right. There was more of a twist to his lips captured there—more mischief than he’d been projecting.

Someone had figured out he’d been faking. Someone had realized he wasn’t _Bucky Barnes_.

Logic had dictated it would be Shuri; she had given him the tablet, after all. But when he’d quipped about the photos being a jab at his ‘hobo look’, as she’d one phrased it, she had expressed no idea for what he was talking about. He’d quickly played it off—it must have been ‘Stevie’, trying to be subtle.

The team had been next to no avail. Not even the spider.

In the interim, he’d practiced the smile. Worked it into daily life by using it only on his ‘great’ days, as if that would explain the discrepancy. Steven had visibly brightened, and, in turn, the team seemed to relax.

No one called him out. No one even hinted.

The next message had been a digitized reel of his gait. He tried softening his stance. Tried bleeding out the militant hold that he suddenly noticed seem to correspond with the others asking if he was alright. The Soldier began dropping observations into the conversations he pretended to care about. How different it was to not have the weight of the arm; how harshly he had to hold himself now that he felt unbalanced.

Shuri had assured his new arm would be almost equal to that of his remaining one. Steven had tailored their workouts in the gym to find balance—god, he had never been able to get rid of that man!  Sam had even offered to show him some physical therapy he’d learned for an old injury.

The pattern had continued but whoever had been helping him did not make themselves known. The communication was alarming but he had eventually accepted it for what it was; if it helped him get to Stark faster, he would deal with the consequences when they came.

Eventually, though, he found he needed the information to change. His life at the palace had been set back on track; his arm in the works. What he had really needed was a way out and to find Stark. The help had been too pointed to not think the communicator wanted the same.

So he had showed his hand. Offering to the King to help find Stark forced T’Challa to make his reservations clear, as expected, but offered to pass the message on to Ms. Potts and Colonel Rhodes all the same.

After all, it must have been one of them.

When he returned to his room, he was surprised to find two new items on his tablet so quickly. The first showed a recording of Siberia without sound, from what was obviously the helmet of the Ironman suit. He had forced himself to watch it, seething at how it all had fallen apart. How his hand had been forced. How he had been required to leave his equal to the silent alarm for there to be any hope of salvaging his intentions.

The second showed a map of the world with only a handful of Hydra bases populated but crossed out.

The message was clear: he was not forgiven but he was necessary. 

They would find their man at all costs.

A cold comfort but one all the same. He filled in the map, pointed out what to look for, and requested a name.

A movie showed up on his queue a day later: His Girl Friday.

“I found him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (zvedza) звезда - please let me know if I've not used the correct form! (not used necessarily as a pet name but a metaphor?)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The pet dilemma](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17525714) by [Imperfectcurl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imperfectcurl/pseuds/Imperfectcurl)




End file.
